


One Last Desperate Game

by ReviewDiaries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReviewDiaries/pseuds/ReviewDiaries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four insights into moments throughout The Reichenbach Fall, from both John and Sherlock. The handcuffed chase, breaking into Kitty's flat, the realisation that Mrs Hudson is not dying and of course, the rooftop. as John and Sherlock play this last desperate game and try to grapple with their changing feelings for the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**John** _

_Take my hand_

It is as though the world has come into sharper focus. John can see every burst of light and darkened shadow in their path. Taste the cool air scraping into his lungs – setting in a steady burn. Feel the heat of Sherlock's hand, fingers interwoven with his own. It makes him want to laugh, to shout from the thrill of the chase and the inescapable rightness of it. He feels as though he could run forever, sliding soundlessly into shadows with Sherlock – _faster, faster, I'm here, I'm here with you._

He would have run with him regardless, the handcuffs are merely a formality, a metaphorical bond made real. But god John is glad they are there, forcing him to keep pace with Sherlock, to twine his fingers round his own – giving him this sense of rightness that he never even knew he was missing.

Sherlock scales the fence, lunging ahead, forgetting for a moment that John is irreparably tied to him, and John reaches through the bars, pulls him back, pulls him close, folds his hand into Sherlock's coat and grins the feral grin of a man high on adrenaline, on the chase, on every single breath and beat and step at Sherlock's side.

_We're going to need to co-ordinate._

The plural – no singulars tonight. No separate entities in this wild race from the rest of the world. They are in this together, as they are in everything, only this time Sherlock cannot go running off without John. Cannot leave him to pick up the pieces and stumble behind – _stay, stay here with me, don't leave me, not this time._

_We_

A combination of the two halves, of Sherlock shifting his hand to the right, of John pulling up, of the solid warmth of Sherlock's other hand as John scrambles over the fence, as he half drops half falls into Sherlock, into the solid warmth of him stumbling back into the wall.  
Of the two of them for a moment pressed between the cool dampness of the bricks and the warmth of the other. And in that moment John cannot breathe for the possibilities and the want that surges through him.

To pull his handcuffed hand down, to pull it into him and watch in fascination as Sherlock's inevitably follows, as his head dips down lower to John's and for a moment they are close, so close, so tantalisingly close, breathing in the other's breath – all John would need to do, stretch up a little, tilt his head to the left and brush his lips across Sherlock's.

It feels like a night for chances, for desperate notions and ridiculous ideas. What could be more ridiculous than fugitives, handcuffed together and racing through the back alleys of London? John wants to laugh. Wants to pull Sherlock into him, twist his hands into his lapels and pull him close. They are surrounded by darkness, dark corners for doing dark deeds, to swallow Sherlock's moans as John presses a line of kisses to his jaw. To muffle John's cry as Sherlock grinds against him pushes him back into the wall, mouth slick and hot and desperate as they try to do away with clothes, slip past barriers in an effort of non-co-ordination.

Fingers on skin, pushing, scrabbling for purchase, eliciting sighs and gasps and filthy little noises from the back of Sherlock's throat that John wants to play, over and over and over. That make him go weak at the knees – or perhaps that's simply Sherlock's tongue, sliding lower, fumbling with John's belt, pushing buttons and zips and pulling him free. John's head falling back against the wall, eyes closed to savour the sensations. One hand tugged down with Sherlock, the other pulling, scraping at the wall, desperate to keep himself from falling, from sinking onto the ground beside Sherlock and giving in to every desperate temptation running through his mind.

Sherlock's tongue is the devil incarnate, sent to torture John, to tease him. Scraping his wits together to open his eyes, to look down at the sight of Sherlock with his mouth around him, thoroughly debauched and bringing him closer and closer to the edge in some dark alley whilst the police are searching – sirens and lights and a whole world outside their private corner. It doesn't matter. None of it matters, just the sensation of Sherlock's mouth and the delicate scrape of teeth and the half gasps of air John tries to drag in and the feel of Sherlock's hair so soft between his fingers, so long he can tangle his hand in it, twist it tight and pull Sherlock harder against him.

John can feel all of it, sense it, taste it, want it, as he stumbles into Sherlock, backing him into the wall. And for a moment their situation is forgotten. This is a night for desperate chances; he sways in that half inch towards Sherlock. But it's a kiss that isn't meant to happen. Is never meant to happen. Sherlock brings his hand up, clasps his forehead to John's, and in that moment he can taste his regret, knows that if he pushed Sherlock back against the wall he would go willingly, would be pliant and soft and demanding beneath John's hands. Would make every noise that John can hear in his imagination and more.  
Sherlock exhales and John can feel the frustration, the sense of loss, can feel the thrumming in Sherlock's heartbeat – _I know. I know. There isn't time, not now, not yet, patience, patience, patience._ Sherlock skims his lips, a light feathering against John's forehead and then they're off again.

Circling, analysing, weighing the options, Sherlock's fingers warm in John's – the steadying constant, the reassurance – my life with yours, we are a unit. Even as Sherlock leads them blindly, runs in front of a bus. Even as John stands for that half a second poised to pull Sherlock out of harm's way, but perfectly willing to stand by his side, regardless – _always, always, I'm always here, I'll always be here, your side is where I stand. Where I belong._

_**Sherlock** _

Obvious to go to the reporter's, to slide his lock picks from his pocket and ignore the knowing twist to John's lips as he realises they could have been separated long ago. As the picks slide home and the latch clicks he quirks a brow and grins, all feral teeth and hunger – _why would I let you free when you're here by my side. Why would I let you go when I can feel your pulse by mine, your fingers twisting through my own?_

Sherlock whips through the door, pulls John with him and throws it closed, backing John against it in the darkness of the flat. The door clicks and for a moment Sherlock's mind is filled with all the buzzing possibilities, of a hundred small movements that would bring John closer, their heart rates accelerating, angles calculated of limbs and lips and desperate sounds – sounds amplified in the darkness leaving them blind.

He brings one hand up to trace the edge of John's jaw, leaning in, noting the feel as John exhales against his lips, the slight sound as his eyelashes flutter closed, the angle that he shifts to press closer against Sherlock, the handcuffs pulled a little to the side and behind him until Sherlock is pinning John's hand against the frame.

The darkness is close, intimate, a lover with a thousand secrets whispering them in Sherlock's ears as he memorises every breath, catalogues each sound and hitch and faint whimper as he leans in, steps in flush against John. He can feel John's breath on his cheek, his lips, his eyelids, mapping out his face without touch.

Sherlock twists his face to the side, his nose brushing against John's jaw, the curve of his ear, spills words like promises for him. _John, my John. When this is over, when we are safe, when we are alone –_

John turns, stubble grazing against Sherlock's cheek and it is like a magnetic pull that Sherlock cannot resist, cannot move away from as John turns and Sherlock turns with him and his lips graze against the softness of Johns for the barest moment.

Sherlock wants to gasp. Wants to cry out. Wants to pour himself into John, give himself over in the darkness where they are safe, where there is nothing that can harm them. Where it is just them and this twisting desperate desire that is drawing them together, pulling them, intertwining them until Sherlock can barely tell where he ends and John begins. They are a single entity, a unit, and Sherlock could not bear to separate himself from John, not for anything, not for anyone - wants to ghost back in and run his tongue over John's lips as he has seen John do a thousand times.  
Map out his face by his name alone, push and touch and tease until there is nothing left of them separately, until it is just them as one, together against anything.

But Sherlock can hear the car door slam outside, pulls away, shies away from the gentle seeking of John's lips, glides a finger along his lower lip instead – a promise, a plea, a desperate prayer. And John must be able to hear her too for he sighs but does nothing else, complies as Sherlock guides him to the sofa, allowing the briefest touch of palm to palm, the ghost of heat before they are bathed in light and the game must go on.

On and on and on. A game of chess with half the pieces missing and no rules. That is what playing with Moriarty is. A game that Sherlock thinks he knows and then a new piece is added, traded, bought out, and he is back to guarding the only thing he can, his heart, his John – _His_.

This is more than Sherlock anticipated, more than he ever expected or calculated or allowed for. This is a stroke of genius and he does not know whether to be thrilled that finally, finally someone is challenging him, is playing with him – really truly playing, with no holds barred and pushing his intellect in every way until it feels as though it might snap, but he feels so, so alive, is so acutely aware of every piece of information and twist as the game unfolds and each move is made.

Or whether he should be desperate, trying to protect John, trying to make it stop, make this whole nightmare stop so that John is safe. John, kind John who always has Sherlock's back and has a core of steel. Who tries not to smile when Sherlock is being the very devil but cannot help himself. Who shot a man for him once, and broke bones and noses along the way as he defended and protected and held his aim steady on the trigger every time. Every time.

And Sherlock does not deserve him. Does not deserve to have a heart so pure, so unfettered and good and so riddled with darkness. It makes him feel less twisted, less abnormal to know that John is full of darkness too and together they stumble their way through – they have to, they must do, they have each other. John who Moriarty would never have noticed if it wasn't for Sherlock. For Sherlock and his damn heart that never hurt or felt as keenly as it has since John fought his way into his life. Fought his way in beside Sherlock and never let him go. He wants to cry, to scream to rage against it all, that John should be trapped in this never ending game of shifting walls and playing fields. Because he isn't safe. Because Sherlock cannot keep him safe.

Because this can never happen.

Because that is what this is. The final pieces of the game are falling into place and Sherlock can see the board, watch it spread out beneath him and touch the pieces. Twist and turn it and analyse it and know that there is no way that Sherlock can emerge from this and still keep John.

They are out in the night again, away from Moriarty and the lies, and the twisting choking feeling of it all, except they're not away. It's following Sherlock and wrapping him tight – his own personal noose made out of silk and tied by his own hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He wants to pull John to him and make the most of this last moment before the final act is brought to play. Wants to kiss him, just once. Feel his tongue and hot breath and the way he will moan Sherlock's name into his mouth. Surely just once, just once he is allowed. To feel, to taste, to inhale the very essence of John and feel loved and wanted and needed by someone, just for a moment.  
But if he does that, it will make the parting all the harder. Will make Sherlock run. Will make him run with John as far and as fast as he can, and it will never be far enough to escape – not really.

Sherlock allows himself one look.

One desperate look. To memorise, to drink in every feature, every well-worn familiar movement, to pull it to him and wrap it around his heart to try and protect it from the fall. The Fall. The fall out. From everything that is about to come after. From every desperate angry moment that will unwind from this act. Sherlock can see each one, unfurling further down the board.

Once this is done, once this is over, please god let John forgive him. But if he can't, if he can never understand why Sherlock has to do this – at least let him live. Let him live, let him be free from all these games and battles and wars fought in the back alleys and the dark strips of London. Sherlock would give it all just to keep John safe. A hundred moments of happiness. Echoes of kisses that have never happened – will never happen. A thousand prayers to a god he does not believe in.

Sherlock turns, fisting his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for John, from pulling him to him and having just a moment of him. Swallows. Brushes off the offers of help. Sets out into the night, away from John, away from safety and desperate leaps of faith and happiness.

The board is set, the game is ready – and Sherlock has to play.

Has to play to keep John safe.

Has to play for John's life.

One last desperate game.


	2. Chapter 2

_**John** _

_You machine._

He is running on pure anger and adrenaline, fuelled and desperate and ready to burn – burn it all down. Slam Sherlock against the nearest wall and shake him, scream at him, demand for him to feel. Feel like he did last night, all hands and half breaths and desperate, desperate wanting.

John wants to go back to the flat and pull out his gun, tuck the solid weight of it into the palm of his hand and wreak havoc on the world for reducing him to this – reducing Sherlock to this. For taking Mrs Hudson from them all in some petty bid for revenge. To win, to play the game and hold the crown and tell the world that they are the best, the smartest, the ruler of it all.

He swallows hard and grips the edge of the taxi seat. He is back at the swimming pool with the chlorine in his nose and the fear in Sherlock's eyes and the infuriating taunts of a man waltzing with the edge of sanity. He wants to go back and re-do it. Not leave the flat, stay in with Sherlock watching bad tv. Make Sherlock run without him and leave John pulling back a choke hold on Moriarty as the world explodes around them. Let Sherlock pull the trigger and end the game before it's even truly begun.

Anything, a hundred mis-steps and wrong choices that have brought them to this point. Where last night the darkness was filled with possibilities, the cold morning light is anything but kind. John can barely correlate the two Sherlock's together in his mind. Soft and pliant with a brush of lips and the cold un-feeling bastard who wouldn't come with him now. John bites down the anger, forces it back down and lets it forge into cold steel.

He will set the world on fire, and then he will shake Sherlock until he sees sense. Clear cut, easy defined steps. Moments that will map out his course in this ridiculous nightmare that there is no waking up from.

The taxi pulls up at Baker Street and John feels the first stirrings of fear in amongst the blind panic, the desperation for none of it to be happening. Why here, why not the hospital? A hundred questions that he cannot answer, doesn't have the time or the space in his head to sort through. Will leave that to Sherlock. To his idiotic desire to think and puzzle and not feel. John wants to break that cold composure more than anything.

To shout, to rage, to shake him. To kiss him, palm him in his hand and watch as every calculated mask and trick falls away and Sherlock becomes undone by John. He feels a savage, vicious pleasure that he will be the one to see Sherlock unravel, ribbons pooling at his feet as he sinks boneless against John, hot gasps and desperate breathy moans in John's ear.

In the house, door splitting the plaster in the wall he throws it open so hard, and there is Mrs Hudson, whole, alive, smiling at him as if everything in the world is normal. As if it is just another day where John has popped out for milk and they can hear Sherlock pacing above them – composing, ranting, pulling the flat apart for cigarettes.

John can feel the bottom drop out of his stomach and he staggers, leans against the wall for a moment as the pieces fit together, slot into a whole he doesn't want to see.  
Sherlock always credits him as being more intelligent than most, but John knows it's a lie, a pretty compliment when Sherlock is drowsy from the rush and heady thrill of the chase, of a case that makes sense, the warmth of the fire and stretched out on the sofa with his head in John's lap.

He is not fast enough, not nearly observant enough, not nearly clever enough to see the picture until it is too late. If he closes his eyes he can see Sherlock and Moriarty and the sick feeling spreads, numbing him, raising bile in his throat until he almost doubles over from it.

Stumbles back out into the street, into the road, a taxi, anything, just take him back to Sherlock, faster, faster, he'll never be there in time.

Such a blind and sentimental fool and Sherlock relied on it – sent him out to keep him out of harm's way and throwing himself on the fire. John screams inside.

He will not let him burn alone.

_**Sherlock** _

Focus narrowed to a point, there is so little left, so little time, so little room for mistakes or errors and Sherlock feels a sliver of doubt; at himself, at Moriarty. A constant search for flaws and glitches that might hinder, disrupt, cost him John – _John, John, John. You machine._

_I'm Sorry, I'm so sorry, forgive me for what I must do._

But he can't think of John, not now, not yet, will allow himself that luxury before the end, but now it is time to check mate the King. To pull the crown down and toss it out across the London skyline. A subtle dance of illusions, performances and words designed to twist, to stab Moriarty where he is weakest, to push him to the brink of madness, teeter on the edge where he has hovered once before with a vest filled with explosives and John's sure nod – _do it, do it now, I'm here with you._

But John isn't here now. Isn't here to clutter Sherlock's head with worries and fears and crippling doubt that he will not be enough, will not think fast enough, will not protect them in the only way he can. John may hate him but at least he is safe.

Sherlock blinks, brings his focus back to Moriarty, takes a breath and finishes what he started. Words. That's all it is, but it is enough. To dazzle, to slide under the skin and prick him where he'll hurt –a dragon, find the weak spot, the eyes, the soft underbelly, stick them hard and fast and sure and watch the blood pool out on the rooftop with the aftermath of the gunshot.

Breathe. God breathe. Breathe and pull facts through his mind again, soothing facts, a hundred possibilities, a hundred calculations and now he has to trust himself. Has to trust that he can pull this off – the first part is done, curtain down, applause, and now it is time to pull apart the hard casing around the heart and slowly slice it into pieces. It has to be true, quick, brief strikes that will leave it shattered and irreparably broken – _god forgive me John, forgive me, don't break, don't trust your eyes and see through this last thing for me. See it for what it is. Blink and breathe 'amazing' and know that I'm not gone._

Sherlock steps up to the ledge – he has a moment, a moment left for himself. A moment to shut his eyes and hold the feel of the faint brush of lips against his own. The breath of a thousand unsaid promises. The touch of a slow curved finger tracing the outline of his hip through his shirt in the darkness of an empty flat.

Sherlock wants to be back there, back in that moment without the oncoming storm, without the interruptions and plans and game that cannot stop. Wants to push harder against John and capture his gasp in his mouth. Drag John's handcuffed hand further up the door until John is arched into him – a hard press of muscle and sinew and bone that fits so perfectly against the angles of Sherlock as they kiss. Tongue darting out to map the inside of John's mouth, the corner of his lips where his smile always starts.

Sherlock measures John's body in finger lengths and hand spans, soft moans and gasps and pleas for more. Precise calculations that wrap John closer, tighter, harder against him until they are fusing into one person, a single entity of sensation and motion and desperate moans as John bites a trail down Sherlock's neck, soothing with kisses and gentle swipes of his tongue against the teeth marks.

And it isn't enough, cannot be enough until Sherlock can feel John's skin beneath his fingertips, pull apart the reactions until he can play John like he would his violin. Soft touches and caresses that slide closer, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans to skim lightly across him and watch him writhe– the onslaught of every desperate longing and demand that Sherlock has ever felt for John, pressed into a touch. A thousand words of communication imparted skin to skin – _I want you, I need you, I'm not whole without you, you take away some part of me when you leave, some vital part, a lung, a leg, my sight, my breath, my heart. My heart. Always my heart. The heart I never had until you found it, brushed it off and set it going again, it's yours, it's yours, it's always been yours._

Sherlock can feel John's hands on him, his free hand sliding lower, returning the favour, pulling apart and seeking, sliding one hand into the front of his trousers and pulling him closer, always closer. He sways forward fractionally, into the touch, the pressure, the illicit feeling of want and need that he has denied himself so long, and feels the cold air push him back from the drop.

The taxi door slams below and it's time. Time for the final act, the closing move, the end of this game and the start of the next. The last cut, the final trick, the slow detachment of Sherlock's heart for all the world to see. A breathless exchange of words and subtext and cold salt tears drying against Sherlock's cheeks as he pulls himself apart, rips apart from the inside and leaves it for the vultures.

Turn around and walk back the way you came – _run, run away, get as far from this as you can._

I'm a fake – _I'm sorry, god I'm sorry, for doing this, for hurting you, for never having the courage before to tell you all I should._

Nobody could be that clever.  
You could. – _John, john, john, john, my John, my clever John, I don't deserve you, don't deserve the heart of you._

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? – _It's all a trick, a magic trick, an illusion just for you, to keep you safe, to keep them from hurting you. Just don't look away, don't leave me here alone, not now._

This phone call, it's my note. – _my last words for you, since I cannot imprint them on your skin, breathe them against your lips._

Goodbye John. – _I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, so sorry, forgive me, forgive me for this._

Breath, another, pulls the air into his lungs, filling him as though he might be able to suck in enough and float from this. Sherlock closes his eyes, stretches out his arms and pulls to the front of his mind the clear feel of lips grazing his, hands fisting in his coat, a wiry body pressed against his, all angles and calculations, that fits against Sherlock's own – lips, lips against his – and he steps out into nothing.


End file.
